Secrets
by Fugaa
Summary: And so he found himself, drunk as fuck and free of all inhibitions, stumbling quietly through the corridor that lead to her chamber. OneShot. FutureFic


Sansa was never the kind to make people wait. Those days at Kings Landing, where a few seconds could mean the difference between a simple scold or a hard beating had left her with an extremely renowned habit of punctuality.

Every peasant, wilding, baker, ser, maid, master, etc. knew that when their Lady set a date or time it was meant to be at that exact moment, not a second later or sooner. So when Sansa Stark, Princess regent at Winterfell, did not appear at first light that morning Sandor knew something was amiss. She seldom was absent at the council to begin with and today, very important matter was meant to be discussed, moreover.

Was it because of him? Perhaps, that thought was reason enough for him to drink himself into oblivion. However, him being heavy drinker oblivion simply refused to come and his body endured wave after wave of sour wine. And so he found himself, drunk as fuck, free of all inhibitions, stumbling quietly through the corridor that lead to her chamber. It was past midnight, nearing the hour of the wolf. Sandor knew it was downright rude to wake her up, but he knew she was a light sleeper and would answer anyway.

"Your Grace?" Sandor said knocking softly at her door. Sandor rarely used her proper title but lately he had begun to do so. Ever since he had received the news. He was well aware it was a childish and stupid but he needed distance; needed for the first time the façade of formality as childish and stupid it were.

The little bird had been puzzled at his newfound courtesies of course, and when she voiced her thoughts Sandor shut her off so harshly he barely knew himself. Not even as the Hound he had talked to her so crudely and cold. Or had he? –it seemed so long ago–It didn't matter, the moment those hateful words came out of his mouth his pretty little bird had flown away from him. With eyes full of fear and sadness. Sandor had never felt so worthless before. Never. Not even when he stroked her throat with his dagger that awful night.

"My princess?" Still no response, a fortnight had passed and still Sansa didn't forgive him. Sandor wondered if she ever would. He knew he didn't deserve it, hell he didn't deserve being Master of Arms, nor he deserved sitting on her council, nor the fine furs he wrapped himself with everyday, not the bed he slept…

Furthermore, Sandor was certain that by no means he deserved her kind smile every time they crossed paths, her sweet words, her ghostly caresses when they were alone, her dilated pupils when he whispered something on her ear, her… Nothing, he deserved nothing and yet he still long for it. Her absence earlier had driven him into the point that either he knew he needed to bend or he will break. He would do whatever the Prettiest Little Bird chose, he decided.

First he would start by doing something he had never done for anyone; he meant to apologize… apologize? No he meant to beg her forgiveness on his bended knees humble and contrite. Little bird asked him to take the oath and be the knight Winterfell needed? Fuck, he would become a knight; whatever she requested, he would gladly go to war for her, killed for her, die for her. Or not, whatever she decided. He only asked for one more smile in return.

"Please, Little Bird." He had reached the begging point. Once his pride would have turn to ashes those words before they could leave his mouth but he was way past that. He rested his forehead on the cold wood and closed tightly his eyes, willing the tears that threatened to spill away.

When had he become such a soft man? Where was his roughness? He had too much wine; Sandor concluded it was always the stupid wine and the stupid things he did under its enchantment. What had the little wolf bitch said earlier? Oh yeah, that he was a useless coward. He would rather be called an idiotic prick, than a coward. But that he was.

Or not? He was about to face his greatest fear: her total rejection. Was that not bravery?

Please– he begged to someone silently, who he didn't knew– You, who know of my suffering, of my adoration; come and tell me if she holds me dear still. Without her smiles I cannot live.

Sandor heard soft steps nearing behind the door and his heart missed a beat. Suddenly he wasn't ready for this yet, maybe another night. He backed away from the door but it was too late, before he could even move completely away the bolt clicked open; an obvious invitation.

Sandor was sweating, like a green boy and not the grown man he was. He steeled himself with a deep breath and came in.

The room was dark but warm thanks to the hot springs than ran within the veins of Winterfell and the dying hearth. A beautiful cage meant for the beautiful bird. Sandor scanned the room and found Sansa sitting on her bed, placing a warm blanket over her shoulders. Sandor followed every movement closely as he closed the door behind him.

Sansa continued to ignore him as she stood and began feeding the nearly extinguished hearth. Sandor was busy trying to form a coherent thought; her presence would had sobered him like a splash of cold water if were anyone but himself.

Being himself, he remained stubbornly drunk, but he was suddenly very aware of every detail that surrounded him. Her smell suffocated him. Yes, he was drunk, but he didn't know if he wasn't drunk enough or sober enough for the talk that was going to take place.

"You smell heavily of wine." Sandor was startled as her voice cut through the silence like Valyrian steel. Sighing, Sandor lowered his head feeling ashamed, and felt angry because of it. He drank, so what? Sansa sat near the hearth and motioned him to the seat in front.

If she thought his visit improper, she did not comment. If she thought his state a lack of civility, she did not comment. Sandor could only wonder why. He had expected to be sent back to his room, scolded and prompted to visit on a more sensible hour.

"Has something happened, ser?" Sansa inquired instead. In that cold distant tone that she had honed just for him. Sandor heart almost burst with sorrow at the sound of her voice. When Sandor made no response, she continued. "I am sorry for not attending the council today, I was not feeling myself, you see. I beg your forgiveness." Sansa said clearly not feeling remorseful in the least.

"I am no ser, little bird" Sansa scoffed at his words and gave him an incredulous look; Sandor diverted his eyes to the hearth as he sat right across her.

"Are you not? You have made believed a _ser_, it's all you are." Sandor ignored her rebuke and opted to stay silent. He wasn't going to take the bait; he wasn't drunk enough to forget himself again.

"You didn't answer my question, _Ser" _His little bird reminded him and Sandor thought carefully his answer. Had something happened? Yes something had indeed happened. He was ready.

"I am sorry." Sandor blurted out, his eyes finding hers. She was so beautiful, Sandor contemplated as the firelight illuminated her features. Unearthly, not the even Targaryan south queen was half as beautiful, nor the Tyrell flower, nor the lioness. Many had agreed and Sandor had wanted to leave them all blind.

"You are… sorry?" Sansa muttered unbelieving "You are clearly not yourself, you should go to chambers and find some sleep."

"I am myself little bird, I am sorry. I truly am." Sandor barked feeling oppressed by the way she brushed away his apology.

"And what of it" Sansa replied coldly "You think that is enough? 'Deep down you are just like Cersei, wanting to swing everyone off their feet with her pretty face and her cunt'" Sansa quoted him angrily "You think that can fix it?"

Sandor had contemplated it, aye. But clearly it wasn't enough. He found himself getting angrier. Not at her but at his own stupidity. He stood up and began pacing, running his fingers through the burnt side of his face.

"I didn't mean it, woman! I was drunk" He retorted weakly

"You are drunk now. Does that mean you are not sorry then?"

It was so difficult for Sandor, he couldn't conjure a clear response; he was too drunk. But this time he meant it. He knew he did. What he didn't know was how make her see when she persistently wanted to remain blind.

Anyone with half a mind saw how he had been asking her forgiveness for the past fortnight by doing whatever he thought could please her. It was obvious and Sandor didn't know why she was being purposefully obtuse.

"You wanted me to say it, so there it is."

"Words are air and they evaporate in the wind." Sansa said as she wrapped the furs tightly around her and bit her lip. Was she distressed? Sandor could not say, no with his current drunken mind.

"Then, following your logic, you know that the words I said that day were nothing but air. I have showed you the opposite time and time again." Sandor growled.

"I am accustomed to your harsh remarks and hard words, I find it endearing even at times" Sandor throat constricted at that "But you… you told me he was dead.. You lied, you brought him back that day. I saw it, the hate burning in you eyes, your sneers of disgust" Sansa paused visibly shaken by their conversation and Sandor was glad that at least she was being something else than cold.

Anger was better than her distant voice. Anger meant she wasn't as indifferent as she pretended.

"He _is_ dead." His eyes slid shut as he brought a fist to his forehead. Now he understood.

"Dead you say? No, I had never seen him so alive as I did that day." Sansa's words were heated by something akin to despair. Sandor hated himself for being the reason why she was so distraught.

"He is dead, he truly is. What you saw that day…" What? It had indeed been the Hound biting and snarling, but Sandor couldn't bring himself to admit it.

"What?" Sandor kept gazing at her idiotically "What!" Sansa pressed on, standing.

"At least the Hound never lied to me!" Sansa shouted tears streaming down her face. Why was she so upset by him? He was, after all only a dog, a servant.

"Little Bird" Sandor said trying to reach for her, but she backed away and rubbed her eyes. As he saw her so discomposed Sandor felt tears of his own stinging. They had had discussions and disagreements before since his arrival. But he had never done something so hurtful and she had never taken any of his harsh words so deep to heart.

They were always dancing in the middle of comfort.

But slowly and steady their exchanges became more intimate; their words had a subtext only they could catch. It was a perilous thing, to let his heart soar with hope that maybe, just maybe, she could give him a chance to show her just how much she meant to him. To openly show her a man in love kind of devotion and not a loyal servant's.

All brought down when he heard Harrion Karstark intended to ask for Sansa's hand, the bastard commander's idea. And he knew Sansa needed that relationship mended. They needed the old allegiance back, or they would never stand against the white walkers and the south. The cripple boy, Sansa and the she-wolf could tame the dragons and force the purple-eyed bitch away, but the others were rising still.

He had gone choleric with anger. She had lied to him, toy with him and he had allowed it.

Sandor knew he was going to lose his little bird completely. And he couldn't do that, no when he had cheated the stranger himself to be by her side.

Sandor did recognized he wasn't in a position to ask anything of her and her scraps of attention should have been enough for a sensible man; he had never been a sensible man. He wanted her, all of her. And he couldn't bring himself to share. Every time a pomp Lord came to her he made sure.

"I am not your little bird." Sansa was fuming wildly, why? Was it really because of him? "Get out ser, please" She ordered.

Sandor's hands shook badly with distress. He couldn't leave her, not like this. Not with everything that was still left unsaid. He broke down completely and ignored her command retaking his seat by hearth. Looking defeated and miserable. With tears streaming down as rapidly as Sansa's.

"Don't let me disappear." Sandor begged. Sansa's ire quelled at Sandor's agitation, never she had see him in such a state. Never had he. There is always a first time for everything "Anything but that."

"Why?"

There was the question Sandor had dreaded to be asked. He was not prepared for this shit. Couldn't Sansa take her apology and give him a rest? Why? Fuck did he know why. Hadn't he showed her? When he appeared at her door offering his sword? Now it needed to be said. As much as Sansa professed that words were just wind, there were some things that needed to be voiced for them to become real, at least for the little bird. She needed someone to sing her back. So he was going to tell her if that was what she truly wanted. She deserved it.

"Can you not see, pretty Little Bird?" Sandor began with an urgent voice. He stood again and slowly he took a step and then another towards her. Sansa let the fur slide off her shoulders and looked at him with quizzical puffed eyes.

"Sansa, do you really don't know?" he asked desperately "Every step I had taken since I first met you was to be near you. When I grabbed your shoulder that day when you first met Ilyn Payne. The day I stopped you from killing Joffrey, the day I ran after you when the riot began." Sandor paused, chocking a sob, feeling congested by the sincerity of his own words.

"The day I went to you, drunk as fuck, for comfort, when the green flames terrorized my soul… when I guard you little sister and tried to take her to your family, because then I wouldn't have failed so miserably at least. Failed you. When I shove off the novice clothes and hold a sword again, it was all because of you. When I killed your prick of husband, the whore-mongering, the Bolton shit and free you again "

There, he had told her his secret. Not so secret he supposed, but he had voiced it openly. Sandor stopped before her–broken and openly weeping. He blamed the wine for the thousandth time… but then again, without it he would never had confessed.

Sansa was shaken to say the least. But her expression softened with each word he uttered and, gulping, she opened her arms and allowed Sandor to sunk in her embrace. He was past beyond any thought of decorum and swiftly nestled his face on her shoulder.

What could it mean? Sandor wondered. Was he forgiven then?

They must have been a funny sight, he held briefly. His large body burrowed in her small arms. Sansa began sobbing softly and nestled her head up his neck. Sandor could feel her wet cheeks pressed firmly against his skin. He couldn't explain how, but suddenly his arms where hugging tightly her heavenly waist.

"What happened?"

Sandor realized then, that she knew. All this time she knew it had been because of her and had wanted him to confess it openly. He hadn't told her how deep shit in love he was… but it was heavily implied. He didn't expect a confession, that his little bird had opened her wings and allowed him to snuggle among, them was enough for him.

"I…" He began "I heard Tarly speaking of a letter that had arrived from Karhold. The Karstark Lord wanted to wed" He gave away with a whisper.

They stood like that for a few minutes, still and absorbed. Sandor breathed deeply her scent that curiously wasn't suffocating anymore but alluring. He resisted the urged to incline his head and place a soft kiss on her neck. Will she be scandalized? Most likely. Will he regret it? Never.

Sansa's shoulders began to shake and Sansor lifted his head to take a better look. What he saw left him speechless. Sansa was smiling that mysterious kind of smile that often left him wonder what had he missed. Accompanied by the redness of her nose and her swollen blue eyes, he believed it was the by far the prettiest face she had ever wore.

"Oh my silly man." Sandor's own puffed up eyes shone with delight at that and a small smile that twisted his scars emerged. Silly? Fuck, he was a stupid ass. Hers? For all time.

"Yes, Lord Karstark next visit holds the intention to ask a hand for marriage." Sansa confirmed, Sandor's smile fell completely and his arms let her curvy waist be. He was about to flee her arms but they hold him gently in place, and Sandor didn't have the strength to fight them.

"Let me finish." She ordered firmly "But not mine."

Sandor stood stupefied at that. Was the man a halfwit? Blind? Most likely if he had not the intention to make Sansa his wife. That only left her bitch of a sister left but Sandor figured she would first let herself be taken by the others than marrying a Lord. As if hearing his musings Sansa cleared his unvoiced doubts.

"Arya agreed. She will marry Harrion Karstark and hold Karhold in his absence. While he fights the walkers at the Wall"

"How did you convince that stubborn donkey?" Sansa smiled warmly.

"I didn't, Jon proposed the idea to her and she miraculously accepted. I am after all Lady Regent while baby Rickon learns to be less of a wilding and more of a King." Sansa explained.

"You are not to marry" Sandor said cautiously as the idea slowly sunk in his thick skull. He wasn't going to lose her, not yet. But Sandor knew the time would come when a marriage proposal would be inevitable and Sansa's duty will force her.

Sandor rested his head back on her shoulder trying to hide the distress that last thought caused him. Sansa reburied her face on his neck and spoke softly against his skin.

"Sandor" He hummed an acknowledgement "Do you want to know a secret?" Sansa said backing away a few inches then she clasped his face firmly with both hands, bringing his forehead down to hers. She looked somehow again like the little girl that travelled to King's Landing and not the woman of eight and ten she was.

"With Lord Greatjon and the remaining Umbers dead, the Last Hearth remains at the hands of the few castellans left. I will send half of the wilding refugees there and master Tarly too." She said as if it was the most obscene idea one could hold.

"Why?" Sandor asked puzzled

"Well it must be rebuild and restock. You see, I… you know me I have always wanted to live in a proper castle." She giggled; Sandor still was lost. Wasn't Winterfell a proper castle?

"I supposed we could stay here but I think its time for me to make a home of my own. And where better than the new castle of Lord Clegane? By deeds, a northern man."

What? Sandor mouth was agape. His brain somehow refused to process and classify that last statement. Well he was a Clegane, the only Clegane left.

Sansa waited patiently, holding his face as if it was dear life. Sandor closed his eyes, and when he opened them every doubt that had held a compressing grip on his heart had vanished. We wondered where he had gone right? After all the vulgarities he had committed, who had finally forgive him. And as he saw right into the blue pools that were her eyes he finally let himself smile and the happiness shield his heart.

"Fuck little bird, I could bestowed upon you the world just for you to look at me like that one more time" My entire world

Sansa saw the change in his features and laugh that girly joyful smiled that reminded him of the children of the forest. "And for a smile?" She asked teasingly

"For that pretty smile of yours? The sky"

"And for a kiss?"

"Shit if I know, anything you want." Sandor grinned that stupid fools grin he hated.

"I want you to take me to our home" his heart soared with so much delight that it spilled through his eyes.

Sandor then kneeled, all the strength fleeing from him like a flock flying away towards the sun. He then embraced her waist once more and buried his face deep in her stomach. Sansa's fingers ran through his dark locks caressing him lovingly.

"What of your bannerman?"

"What about them?"

"I don't think they'll like your little plan."

"We" Meaning the Starks, Sandor supposed "Are all that stands between dead and life, they know better."

Sandor knew they did, they respected their kindness and feared their power. Once Sansa had been so crossed at young Lord Manderly's lack of propriety that with a soft touch she made him lose consciousness. He had swelled with pride. The memory refueled his affection and he held her tighter.

She was his thirst and longing. His hunger, delirium and madness. His little bird was his heaven and his hell, the bleeding without a wound, what made him and unmade him. Sandor knew that a harsh life and half of winter still awaited them–challenge them to fight.

But until death claims him, he would be hers. And she, his death continuously born in life.

* * *

Aaaand its done :) Please review!


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